


Captive

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Phasma has had training in how to be held captive.





	

Captain Phasma has had the same training she’s watched her troopers have. They show you how to resist (you can’t) and how to keep sane (you don’t). She knows it’s a platitude, but she buys into it all the same. She knows the Resistance are monsters who will stop at nothing to extract information from her, and she knows she will need to die if it comes to it. 

She does not want to die. No one wants to die. But sometimes it is preferable to the alternative, and the alternative might involve a lot of pain, followed by betraying everything she’s ever believed in, and then death.

They’ve ripped her helmet off. Ripped her chest-plate and gloves, greaves, gauntlets. All she’s wearing are her boots, and the black under-clothes that keep her armour from chafing. Her hands bound behind her, and her ankles snicked to the chair-legs. 

She hurts. A lot. But it’s the indignity of being taken alive that hurts the most, and the fact she never got to say goodbye. She’s furious with herself, but all she can do is batten down her holes and jealously keep her energy in the hope she could escape or get something to use on hers–

There’s a scream, cut off mid-vocalisation. It gurgles into a death rattle, and her head flips up. It’s moments before the door opens, and she sees someone she never thought she would again.

He shouldn’t have come for her. It’s probably against the General’s wishes, and against the Order’s command. 

She’s still glad.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, as he waves a hand and loosens the restraints.  


“I can walk,” she replies.  


He nods, and then looks around. There’s a blaster rifle in the corridor, and he summons it with the Force to give to her.

“Thank you.”  


He looks like he wants to do more, but - under the mask - it’s hard to read his intent. It’s shoulders and pauses in movement, and they haven’t the time for subtle.

“To the ship?”  


“Yes.”  


***

The way back is filled with fewer people to kill than she would like. Kylo dispatches most of them, and she’s left with a gnawing need for vengeance that she can’t sate. 

It’s not even like they did their worst with her, but she’s irritated that anyone could get the slightest drop on her. All who witnessed her capture need to perish, but it looks like Kylo’s made good on that for her.

It’s favouritism. It’s - wrong.

But she’s alive, and she’s never been more grateful, if terrified, in her life. She owes him more than everything, even if he does love her. She should never have been saved.

Once they board his shuttle, she can feel his eyes rake over her. He takes in all her hurts, and holds his hands out for her blaster. It’s difficult to let go of it, but she does. She can feel his attention like a rush of warm shower-water over her skin, and she’s not sure she deserves it for getting caught.

“I… I need…” She doesn’t often lose her words, but now she does. She bolts towards his room without caring who sees.  


***

Inside, she can calm down. Her face is exposed, but she doesn’t think anyone will walk off this ship remembering that. Kylo knows what it’s like to need a mask. He enters shortly after, and his own mask is still in place. He surges towards her, then grabs hold of her jaw, pulling her against his chest.

For a long moment, they’re locked in that embrace, and her hands curl into the dark cowl around his shoulders. He’s almost as tall when he’s masked and she isn’t, but she still feels her height, and her lack of it. 

“Take it off,” she says.  


He nods, and pushes the hood back. Her hands are on his shoulders, and she holds on (not wobbly, no) as he releases the clasps on his helm. It’s tossed onto the bed, and then they’re staring eye-to-eye.

He shouldn’t have come for her.

“Yes I should.”  


Fuck. 

Phasma sways, and knots her fingers in his hair. That’s when she notices he’s not himself. Pale as standard, he currently looks like he’s not just got no colour, but he’s got the opposite of colour. Like the universe is sapping the contrast from him, desaturating his very self. The darkness around and in his eyes is deeper, angrier, and the pinch to his lips is uncomfortable to watch. His face isn’t… oh. That’s it. It takes her a moment to place, but she notices the shade of days on his jaw, around his lips and chin. He’s not been shaving, and her fingertips trace through the garden of grief.

“You shouldn’t have,” she says, aloud this time.  


His fingers stroke from her temple across her scalp, and lightning sparks between them. It jolts down to her heart, making it skip, and her eyes level accusations at him.

“I needed you safe.”  


He did, didn’t he? She can see that, and she nods. 

He guides her onto the bed, and she grabs and huffs at the feel of black fabric instead of soft skin. She’s had enough of uniforms for the day, thank you, and she works to strip him even as he kisses at her jaw, suckling at her throat, finding where her blood sings loud and scratching her worse than any blade.

“You shouldn’t,” she says, even as he pulls the fabric from her hips and strokes up her sides. He’s wearing too much but she’s struggling, and there’s hands cupping her breasts from below. Thumbs that glide, and he finds some secret rhythm to her inner tides, dragging her whole core into fire even though she hates it.  


By the time her shirt is off, he’s still wearing everything but hood, mask, and gloves. The rest is in disarray, but she can’t fight it any more. She’s tired, and panicked, and coming down from the adrenaline high. She should join in, but he’s always so eager to please her, that it’s almost a shame to put his attentions aside. He takes pleasure in servicing her needs, and it makes them both happy.

Over her chest, kisses that are soft and kind, but bracketed by the thatch of his face. He soothes where he abrades, but the sting lingers once he’s moved on.

Down, over her belly. Hands on her hips, and she slinks her own into his hair. The scratch is going to drive her crazy if he keeps going lower, and she knows he will.

If she mentions it stings, he’ll stop. And she doesn’t want that.

The pants are shimmied down, his callused fingers grazing her hip-bones and circling her buttocks. She’s bared, and her legs part around him in welcome. She’s not sure how into this she’s capable of getting, but she’s prepared to try all the same. Kylo always finds ways to bring her to bliss, even when she isn’t sure her body can manage it. It’s both terrifying and elating in one.

His nose slips between her lips, stroking the line of her slit. Over and over, hardly there. Hardly touching. Hardly enough. Rank-and-file stubble combs through her longer curls, and when his tongue starts to lick in long, long swipes, the counterpoint of pinprick pain keeps her right on the edge of happy. He laps the slight dribble of juices from her hole, adding his own, and the worry to her clit is almost torture of its own. Her heels hammer down, but he keeps it up until she’s nearly grunting in pain at the too-fast stimulation. Right when she’s about to complain, he dips his tongue in her just once, then draws a wide circle around her entrance, pulling the flesh there, tugging her lightly wider. Dip, swirl. Dip. Swirl. Flicker. The pattern doesn’t remain constant, and despite herself she feels the gnawing Krayt-dragon in her gut wake and call out for more.

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers, as he writes her name across her nub with his tongue.   


Two fingers slide in as he keeps up the punishment, and she _does_ kick, but he barely stops. His fingers work her brutally, and his tongue sweeps down to lick where they enter her, before going back to lay flat and hum over her Krayt-pearl.

The vibrations are good, the scratching is good, everything is good.

It’s also all terrible, but that’s not his fault.

Three fingers pound into her until it almost hurts, until the knuckles against her walls are blinding, and she’s pulling at his hair and scrunching over him, bent in a rictus as she thrusts madly underneath him.

She wants to get off. She _needs_ to get off, and it’s not neat, it’s not polite, it’s nothing but animal lust and horror and a realisation of what almost happened and a relief at being saved and the knowledge that this might help, might help if she can come. Might take some of the worry away, make some of the pain go. It’s a brutal fucking under his hand, and she clenches and squelches around him, begging with her full voice as she nears her climax. 

 _You shouldn’t have come for me_.

He shouldn’t have. It’s against every. Single. Rule. And. Reg.

(Kylo has never lived by those.)

When her orgasm hits, it’s a relief, a release, and a sadness, combined. She’s not even sure why she’s crying, but when he comes up to kiss her, she is. 

“I could never leave you,” he whispers, into her neck.  


She shouldn’t be glad he thinks more of her than the Order.

But she is. She is.

She’s glad.


End file.
